to
her own nest? Murmureth she not a pleasant welcome to her wearied
home-returned husband, even like the Dove among the woodlands when her
mate re-alights on the pine? Should her spouse be taken from her and
disappear, doth not her heart sometimes break, as they say it happens to
the Dove? But oftener far, findeth not the widow that her orphans are
still fed by her own hand, that is filled with good things by
Providence; till grown up, and able to shift for themselves, away they
go--just as the poor Dove lamenteth for her mate in the snare of the
fowler, yet feedeth her young continually through the whole day, till
away too go they--alas, in neither case, perhaps, ever more to return!

We dislike all favouritism, all foolish and capricious partiality for
particular bird or beast; but dear, old, sacred associations, will
_tell_ upon all one thinks or feels towards any place or person in this
world of ours, near or remote. God forbid we should criticise the
Cushat! We desire to speak of him as tenderly as of a friend buried in
our early youth. Too true it is, that often and oft, when schoolboys,
have we striven to steal upon him in his solitude, and to shoot him to
death. In morals, and in religion, it would be heterodox to deny that
the will is as the deed. Yet in cases of high and low-way robbery and
murder, there does seem, treating the subject not in philosophical but
popular style, to be some little difference between the two; at least we
hope so, for otherwise we can with difficulty imagine one person not
deserving to be ordered for execution, on Wednesday next, between the
hours of eight and nine ante-meridian. Happily, however, for our future
peace of mind, and not improbably for the whole confirmation of our
character, our Guardian Genius--(every boy has one constantly at his
side, both during school and play hours, though it must be confessed
sometimes a little remiss in his duty, for the nature even of angelical
beings is imperfect)--always so contrived it, that with all our cunning
we never could kill a Cushat. Many a long hour--indeed whole
Saturdays--have we lain perdue among broom and whins, the beautiful
green and yellow skirting of sweet Scotia's woods, watching his egress
or ingress, our gun ready cocked, and finger on trigger, that on the
flapping of his wings not a moment might be lost in bringing him to the
ground. But couch where we might, no Cushat ever came near our insidious
lair. Now and then a